Life

It was a 6:45 a.m flight. I was famished and barely awake. Kyle, whom I had hired to be my assistant for this choreography gig in Dallas, whisked the air around with his sprite energy. He is an ego boost for sure. He is ten years my junior only a better version complete with introspection and access to his intuition. He pooh-poohs my assessment: "I am not a better version. We are all individuals and we matter..." he usually says. I chuckle warmly (he's right of course). He even looks a little like me as he elucidates. Environmental responsibility, alternative spiritual contemplation and an abundance of love-creating stuff tops Kyle's priority list.

He had already justified my bringing him, succeeding somehow in getting us into the correct line to avoid the three thousand other people in the check-in area who would see to it that we miss the flight otherwise. We made it past security in time to deal with getting some food.

“What are you doing?” he asked as I got in line.

“Getting breakfast.”

“At McDonald's? You can't. Jamal do you know what they put in the food?”

“Yes, baby but there is no other option and I don't do this all the time.”

“One time is too many. I'm sorry I have to say something. I can't just let you ingest that garbage. It's toxic. You could die.”

The negative space between the line at McDonald's and the line at Dunkin' Donuts was all that separated us. A few people conscious enough at this hour wondered if we knew each other. They missed the parts of the conversation that contained familiarity.

“It's not going to kill me. And besides, you're in the line at Dunkin' Donuts.”

“I'm only having coffee.”

“Flirting with hypocrisy are we?”

“I choose life! You should choose life too," he said.

I laughed at my younger self staring at me with Joan of Arc commitment.

“You should all choose life,” he said louder, so that the folks at the counter could hear and perhaps change their minds.

They were not deterred. Neither was I. When we made it to the plane I uncovered my morning entree and buttered the pancakes.

“I'm judging you,” he said.

“I know.”

His arms were folded in the seat next to me. He's so cute I want to squeeze him.

“You just go ahead and drink your – what is that anyway?”

“It's hot chocolate mixed with french vanilla latte.”

“And how much artificial sugar is in that concoction you're drinking? And you know you're going to starve on this flight.”

“It's not nearly as bad as what you're having.”

It was too early in the morning to recall the information pertinent to the battle with my intrepid young colleague, something about McDonald's Happy Meals containing no more than 600 calories, only 35% of that coming from fat. Granted, those are for kids and I wasn't having one right then, but this would have been the best I could do. Meanwhile, some lattes have enough sugar for 12 Dunkin Donuts. And I did mention that the caffeine in that styrofoam cup was enough to strip his muscles of all the water they need and make him tight and ineffective at rehearsal.

“Whatever. “I'll be at your funeral if that artificial gook you're eating does you in.”

“Thanks.”

And then we laughed. And after he finished cursing me to the cornfield of diet hell, he succumbed to the sleep (on me) that the chocolate/vanilla mix did nothing to prevent.